We have no art
by mystralwind
Summary: A post apocalyptic world discovers the emptiness in the absence of art, culture, history, religion, communications, and modern inventions. What will hold the remnants together to rebuild?


This was just a simple sci-fi fic I had to write for my art class to relay what the world would be like by the time there was no art, culture, or religion in the world. No more inventions, communication, innovations, music or great thinkers; nothing.

**We Have No Art**

Journal Entry April 24, 2025

The wars of the greater nations had just about wiped out all life as we knew it here in Colorado Springs. Scattered survivors seek each other out cautiously. With hunger and shelter being the prime objectives, people have to be leery of theft, murder and rape. Not that there is much left to steal; government or banking institutions, stores and car lots have all been leveled.

Five bases immediately surrounding us in the Pikes Peak area of Colorado were the first to be hit, but then the libraries, hospitals, towns, schools, parks and just anything else were destroyed; just for spite. Barren land remains obscured by the fall out and ever darkened skies.

A few of us have banded together for the safety found in numbers. Among us is an old preacher named Charlie, a former history teacher named Beth, a truck driver named Bill, Carol the grocer and her boy Seth and me. My names Lauren, I used to be a student at the local university studying nursing. Bill had a CB radio he used to keep in his truck. We tried to use it after the dust cleared but there was nothing but static. That was two weeks ago. The only others we found are horribly defaced renegades that will kill you and take what little you have. They only come out a night so we just huddle up when it's their turn to live. Humph; If you can even call it that.

Our scavenging for food or any blankets or warm clothing is limited to the day; the temperature really drops at night. We pass the nights in a large sewer drain built under the old bypass bridge. Bill thinks we should try to make our way to the mountains. He remembers an installation from his army days located in the seven falls area. We aren't too far from it and if it's still manned they'd have rations and med packs. We weren't killed with the blast but I can tell from the nausea, thirst and hair loss that we have radiation sickness. We could all live a really long time suffering from cancerous side effects; slowly dying.

I remember a boy I knew, he was studying literature. His eyes used to glow when he'd lift his head up from reading a passage out loud. I'd kill for a good book now, anything to help pass the time, or lift the despondency; even if just for a night. Beth re-tells historical events sometimes as if she were a bard. Charlie can recite the Lords prayer and the writings of Solomon in prose. It's not like a television or radio, but it helps. We try to avoid talking about people we knew, it just hurts too much.

I know why they did it; eliminate the libraries and cultural centers I mean. Think about it. No written, theatrical or visual ties to our way of life, our society. It's all gone. There's no music, dancing, fine foods, gardens, not even a monument standing. Without any expressions or captured cultural ideas we have to start over. They don't have to worry about us regrouping or rebuilding our way of life. No one has anything to bond us together anymore except that we are here and can speak the same language.

The Drainage ditch across from us holds a handful of Mexican Americans. One of the boys there went to grade school with Seth, he speaks English. Once in a while we all group to scrounge through the store wreckages. Hey, more hands the better. If we could understand each other we'd probably all hold up together. Without something to help breach the language barrier, to communicate beyond words, we just feel disconnected. Miguel, the boy, sings archipelago some of the old hits. Sometimes he sings a Mexican lullaby. They are really pretty to listen to, I hope their culture survived. Being on the same continent with Canada and Mexico makes me wonder if they were hit as well. We're just too isolated to really worry about how others are. Any technology we used to communicate was lost as well. No computers, internet, vehicles, phones, radios, television, newscasts, cameras, or any other media. Nothing else used to tie the world together. Even if we had a phone, or camera, Bill says the blast emitted EMP waves to negate the equipment from working. That's why his CB radio didn't work.

At first Charlie thought we would have to try to go east 100 miles to the Kansas Army National Guard Depot or even west to the Cripple Creek area. He and Bill are from this area; they're surprised we are even alive. Bill tells him those aren't good options; to far away. He says the exposure to the fallout will kill us if we are out in it too long. That's why he makes all our scavenging trips so fast. We are going to have to try to get to Cheyenne Mountain; NORAD was built to be a fallout shelter. He says they're equipped with generators, air filters, underground springs and Shock absorbers on the buildings. Charlie points out that the springs will be contaminated but Bill assures him the facility has a reservoir and can treat the water. He says it's only six miles away and we should be there under an hour on transportation. We need to stop at Fort Carson along the way; he thinks we might find a Humvee, garaged car, or even a tank. It's decided then, Carol and Beth agree. Charlie and Bill just walked over to the other drainage ditch, seems like the others are coming with us. We'll leave in the morning.

On our walk Charlie trips over pieces of a broken stain glass window. He holds the few pieces mournfully; this was donated by a local craftsman in memorial to his mother. Charlie takes a moment to reflect on his parish; its design, religious art and the members long gone.

We arrive at what's left of Fort Carson; it looks like it's been raided. Bill walks inside with the rest of us dragging behind him. Seth looks like he's going to be ill again. He hasn't been able to hold anything down for a few days. Beth leads Seth and Carol to sit down and rest. Charlie seems really tired, he sits down as well. Miguel says something to the others and they sit as well, except for one man. He heads towards Bill to help him. The only vehicle is stripped and he won't be able to get it working. He leaves to explore the installation further. After a few minutes he comes back and exclaims excitedly that there's a tank that just needs a battery. Charlie asks why the raiders would have left it here. Bill smugly replies that they probably just didn't know where supplies were kept. He rummages through the wreckage and gives a whoop when he finds what he was looking for; a battery. He and the other gentleman leave to hook it up.

Twenty minutes later, well I can't really say; my watch stopped working weeks ago. It feels like twenty minutes or so, but Bill returns and says it's time to load up. He says he can drive the tank; he had some training with them. If we climb on top, it can carry all of us. He walks over to wake Charlie. I hadn't noticed he fell asleep. Bill stops trying, Charlie is gone. At least he went from age, the rest of us probably won't be as lucky. Carol is crying, as are some of the Mexicans. They mourn our loss of spiritual guidance.

The only sign we were ever here on the way to the installation is the half charred remains of a bill board advertisement. It was the aerial view of our city as taken by a local photographer to welcome newcomers. Bill tells us to remain here and walks up to what looks like a bank vault door. Four enlisted men come into sight pointing weapons at him. He raises his arms and identifies himself as a retired army captain. One guard reaches behind him to retrieve his walled while eyeing all of us. Bill explains to them we're refugees and need help. After a few minutes someone comes out from the bunker to greet us. He says it's alright; he's lieutenant Verez and waves for us to follow him. Bill takes the lead followed by the rest of us as two of the four posted guards climb in the tank. Our guide explains how they lost all contact with the outside world after the blast. They have been holding out in hopes of being contacted by higher authorities. This is a reserve base only, a fallout shelter, used just for back up. He leads us to the commons area to eat and points towards the barracks.

Carol asks if they might have a chaplain or even a bible; she is very worried over Seth. The lieutenant looks the boy over and escorts the pair to their medics. In the meantime Beth looks for any reading material. One of the soldiers speaks fluent Spanish and asks the Hispanics if they would like anything. Miguel questions about music or instruments and his father explains his wife was a Mexican recording star. These folks like us are used to be enveloped in cultural richness. I ask the young woman if they have access to any media, magazines, pictures, literature at all.

She sighs and slumps her shoulders just a bit before explaining. All access to the outside world here was limited to military and survival necessities. The EMP's took out all availability to any media or outside contact. A few soldiers carried personal paperback books, cd players and DVD's but they were left behind at the air base when the claxons sounded. They weren't deemed as items of necessity. On their way here they noticed the entire city was leveled and wondered as to the outside cities.

"So that's it then," I ask. "No magazines, movies, photographs, dancing, books, nothing?" "Not a thing to anchor us to our way of life?"

She blankly acknowledged me and said "yes, it's all gone. We have no art. All we can do is remember; and tell those who come after."


End file.
